


Life Choices

by sparxwrites



Series: Nott a Coffee Shop AU [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bickering, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Recreational Drug Use, Slice of Life, sibling-like relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29023866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: “Hey. Molly,” says Beau, slumped at one end of Molly’s ratty brocade couch. “Can I, like, give you some advice?”Molly snorts, rolling his head against the back of the couch to look at her with bloodshot eyes. “I’m not gonna listen to it, but yeah. Feel free tosayit, if it’ll make you feel better.”(In which Beau and Molly share a joint, and discuss Molly's life choices vis-a-vis a certain crossbow-wielding coffee shop owner.)
Series: Nott a Coffee Shop AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2117703
Kudos: 23





	Life Choices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoodienanami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoodienanami/gifts).



> this probably won't make much sense if you haven't read the first fic in this series, but feel free to forge on ahead nonetheless!

“Hey. Molly,” says Beau, slumped at one end of Molly’s ratty brocade couch. His living room’s lightly wreathed in smoke, and the half-open window is doing little other than make his gauzy curtains flutter in the breeze. A second-hand TV in the corner is playing some old anime on mute, adding to the disorienting flicker of half a dozen lit candles and a handful of colourful, silk-draped lamps that cover most available surfaces.

The kitchen table, though, is left untouched by their ravages. Primarily because it’s half-covered in small packets of pills and other assorted goodies, a well-worn kitchen scale nestled among them. The other half is covered in an eclectic mix of bottles, cheap wine and cheap spirits, all opened and most half-drunk.

Business as usual, then, thinks Beau, in the maximalist, hedonistic Dyonisian shrine that is Molly’s studio apartment.

“Yeah?” asks Molly, languidly, sprawled at the other end of the couch. His voice rasps a little in his throat. He’s dressed as he always is, psychedelic tie-dye and cheap jewellery and faded purple in his wavy hair. A joint smoulders between the knuckles of his middle and index fingers, the tip of it glowing a dull cherry red.

Beau snags it, ignoring his yelp of protest, and brings it to her lips. The weed’s decent quality, and not cut with tobacco like she’s used to. It’s why she smokes with Molly, even though he’s a dick. He’s always got the good shit. “Can I, like, give you some advice?”

Molly snorts, rolling his head against the back of the couch to look at her with bloodshot eyes. “I’m not gonna listen to it, but yeah. Feel free to _say_ it, if it’ll make you feel better.” 

There’s two glasses on the floor by his foot, one filled with spent cigarettes and joints, the other half-full of cheap amber whiskey. He grabs the wrong one at first, nearly takes a sip from it, and Beau smirks as he sputters on an accidental inhale of ash.

“Stop going to _Nott_ ’s, dipshit.”

Wiping his lips, Molly grabs the _correct_ cup this time, takes a long gulp of the whiskey, and pulls a face at the burn and acrid aftertaste. Still takes another gulp, though, despite his lightly watering eyes. “And whyever would I do that, Miss Beauregard?” he asks, smirking. “They’ve got the best coffee in town. Or so I hear. Never had a chance to sample it myself, what with the overenthusiastic asshole of a proprietor and her military-grade crossbow.”

“Because she fucking _shot_ you, dude!” says Beau, incredulously. Her eyebrows are practically in her hair. “With a fucking _crossbow_! And then you went back, and she nearly fucking shot you _again_! Holy shit.”

“Yeah, because _you_ told that cute little barista that I was dealing in the parking lot,” says Molly, stealing the joint back from her and taking a hit. “You bitch,” he adds, fondly, with a blown kiss that’s mostly smoke.

He does, Beau has to reluctantly admit, have a point.

“Yeah, whatever,” she snaps, taking a sip of her own whiskey. It tastes like ass. She’s had a lot of cheap drinks in her time, but Molly’s liquor stash is always outstanding in that regard. For someone with a lot of good weed, he has a _remarkable_ amount of shitty alcohol. It’s one of the many enduring mysteries about him but, for some reason, it’s the one that bothers Beau the most. “But still. The first time she shot you, I wasn’t even in the same zip code, so you don’t have an excuse for _that_ one.”

“Sure I do,” says Molly, cheekily. “I didn’t know she was going to shoot me, first time, did I?”

“Molly, her husband is the biggest supplier in the _city_.” Beau rolls her eyes. “The fuck did you think she was gonna do? Roll out the red carpet for some small-timer selling another guy’s supply on her property?”

“I don’t know,” says Molly, with a languid shrug. His words are beginning to slow a little, to thicken. “She might have.”

Beau sighs, and her breath stirs the haze of smoke hanging in the air. It eddies in interesting patterns, the low light from the side table lamps and scattered candles catching on each individual particle of dust, of ash. “That’s your problem, y’know,” she says. “You don’t know _shit_. Because you never fucking _think_.”

“Well.” Molly blows out another lungful of smoke, tongue pressed thoughtfully behind his teeth. “I _think_ his wife might have been less of a grumpy asshole if his supply was anything like as good as mine. I got some _excellent_ LSD in yesterday. Maybe I should pay _Nott’s_ another a visit and offer them all some.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” asks Beauregard, more weary than annoyed. If Molly wants to try dodging crossbow bolts on his own time, that’s his problem, she guesses. It’s not like she’s ever managed to stop him from doing stupid shit before. She’d miss the weed, though. “Like. _Seriously_. What is _wrong_ with you?”

She makes a grabby hand in his general direction, too stoned to do anything more proactive, and hopes he gets the message.

Molly raps his knuckles lightly against the top of his head, and hands the joint over with a surprising lack of protest. “Traumatic brain injury,” he says, glibly. “And an insufferable personality. Or so I’ve been told.”

Beau groans, tipping her head back against the couch and taking another drag of the steadily-dwindling joint. “Yeah,” she says, on an exhale, coughing a little as the smoke leaves her lungs. “That’d fucking do it, I guess.”

“Hmm,” hums Molly, though whether it’s in agreement or just acknowledgement is anyone’s guess. He thinks for a moment, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. His half-drunk glass of whiskey hangs precariously in the loose grip his fingers. “And also my dick is just _too big_. And I’m way too hot, and too good at sex, and–”

“If you don’t shut up,” Beau interrupts, “I’m gonna smoke the rest of this joint just to spite you.”

Molly takes a deep drink of whiskey, and mimes zipping his lips shut – before rather ruining the effect by coughing. “My lips,” he manages, once he’s recovered, “are sealed about my greatness. For the rest of the evening, at least. Now.” He rattles his glass, half-melted ice cubes clinking against the sides, and holds out a hand. “ _Gimme_.”

**Author's Note:**

> come find me @sparxwrites on tumblr or @sparxwriting on twitter for more :)


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